Page 2 of Tempting the King

My desk chair squeaks as I lean back, reaching toward the African Violet sitting on the corner of my desk. I pinch off a wilting flower, remembering the hot guy that gave it to me on our first date a couple months ago, after my friend Anita signed me up for Hollar, the latest, hottest dating app.

The guy was clever and funny in our chats, and finally after a week of back and forth on the app, we set up a coffee date.

He greeted me wearing a Tom Ford suit and lavender tie that matched the blooms on the little plant he offered as a gift.

He was also eighteen, not the twenty-six on his profile. Turns out, he was here on a student visa, which was expiring, and he thought ‘I looked like a nice, lonely lady’ and would be willing to help him out.

And marry him.

Funny thing, that was one of the best dates I’ve had since I set upon the Lewis and Clark style expedition that is online dating.

A pounding on my office door tightens the invisible binding around my chest as I pop a finger on the mute button. It’s after hours, I have no more clients scheduled, and my floor is empty except for my office.

My heart leaps into my throat when it’s my brother’s voice that comes through the door. “Carrot.” He uses the nickname he gave me when we were kids, so I already know he’s not stopping by with a maple bacon flavored cheesecake.

Which is a thing. A good thing, as Martha Stewart would say.

He knocks again, harder. “Let me in. I know you’re not snuggling some lonely billionaire in there, it’s after five.”

The muscle in my forehead ticks as I reach under my desk and press the button to buzz him through.

He bursts through the door, and it takes only a few seconds for me to assess that he’s lost more weight. His eyes are more sunken than when I saw him a week ago for breakfast and gave him rent money.

His dark hair is slicked back, olive skin showing a few new sores, reminding me of how different we are. Not only in looks, but the opposing directions our lives took.

We were like peas and carrots growing up, hence my nickname. But even with my red hair, our parents never could keep straight who was peas and who was carrots.

I point to the cream-colored leather sofa under the expansive windows to my left, making a ‘be quiet’ gesture with my finger to my lips, which he acknowledges with a salute. An homage to his other nickname for me, which is ‘sergeant’.

The late-afternoon April sun streams around him as he flops down on the sofa with a dramatic sigh, retrieves his phone from the back pocket of his dirty jeans, and starts scrolling.

The phone I pay for.

I draw a deep breath, my head falling back, gripping the front edge of my desk.

I give it a solid shove, sending my chair spinning.

I have too many men in my life, and none of them give me orgasms.

What wrong turn did I take that I spend most of my waking hours with men, many of them attractive and most of them wealthy, and I’ve yet to find one I’d let get inside my pants?

I drop my foot to the floor, stalling my chairy-go-round with a jolt, and consider the color-coded schedule displayed on the screen of my Mac. Then I shoot a glance at Benjamin, noting a fading bruise under his eye and the streak of dirt on the arm of the sofa where his left foot is resting. The band around my chest ratchets down and pressure builds behind my eyeballs.

“Please, I’ll double your hourly rate.” Milton says.

Now we’re talking.

I’m silent as he goes on.

“Playoffs are coming, they need him. This city needs him.” He clears his throat, there’s a quick pause, and I remember what my used car salesman grandfather always told me about negotiating. When they throw out an offer, let it sit there.

Whoever talks first, loses.

I hold my breath, fluttering my fingers under the auto dispenser of lavender hand sanitizer on my desk. A spurt of cool gel streams into my palm as I rub my hands together and wait.

One one thousand.

Two one thousand.

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